Chris knows he shouldn't be doing this. Knows he shouldn't be feeling what he is in the first place, let alone act on all it.
Most of the time, he holds himself back as much as he can, prevents himself from reaching out, touching and taking. Telling himself that he won't do it again, that his self-control won't break.
But there are times he just simply can't.
He reaches out a hand, cupping the face of the boy he's holding tight to his chest, pressing his forehead against the other's, panting soft breaths over his face. Breathing "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over and over again, hoping that the boy understands that he just can't help himself. That he wants to be better, tries so damn hard, but that it just doesn't seem to be enough no matter his efforts.
He's shaking, crying salty tears that he tastes in his mouth and almost unable to tell which way the surface lies. Feeling like he is drowning and fearing that he'll drag the boy down with him, into the deep and dark and lonely abyss that is his mind.
Sometimes he wonders if he is going down the same path that his sister, father, wife and child travelled, and he can't help but fear that one day, he'll wake up to a world where the boy – that he shouldn't be touchingkissingfucking but is – has painted his sheets all red.
Chris knows he shouldn't be doing this. But knowing and doing has always been two very different things.